Redemption
by Slightly Sinister Sinestra
Summary: Crowley is a demon, a fallen angel. But when Aziraphael is kidnapped by Hell, this demon is going to get him back. Even if it means doing something ... holy. AC. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

My muse is insatiable, but random. Ideas spark off regularly, but there's never any garauntee that they'll be connected to anything that went before. Thus we have my first Good Omens fic. And yes, it is Aziraphael/Crowley. I'll warn you before we start. And there will be nastiness involved, and a number of martyr-complexs. But that aside, it worked, in my head at least. So give it a try. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I'm not Prattchet, or Gaiman. To start with, I'm the wrong gender to be either. So I don't own. Not even a little. Sometimes I just hate the world.

Redemption - Chapter 1

Crowley was royally pissed off. Driving furiously back to his apartment, much to the distress of a number of unfortunate pedestrians, he wondered what could have been so bloody important that the angel would stand him up. Okay, sure, it hadn't been a formal arrangement. They just usually went out for a meal of a Thursday, talked shop a bit, compared notes on the vagaries of the human race. It wasn't exactly ground-shakingly important. But still! He'd been rather looking forward to their weekly chat. And then Aziraphael never bloody showed!

He double parked the Bentley and strode into his building, taking petty pleasure in the resounding slam of the doors behind him. His fury carried him through the lobby and halfway up the stairs before the smell came through. Crowley froze, placing his foot carefully down on the next step as he scented the air carefully. The odor was faint, vaguely floral, and no more pervasive than human air freshener, but to the demon it reeked of angel. And not his angel, either. Aziraphael's scent was tempered by glue and paper and dust, the fragrance of old books. This was the smell of straight-up, robe-and-halo angel. Not the kind who would casually drop by for a chat and a cup of tea with a demon. And if he'd picked them up, then there was every chance they'd cottoned on to his presence also, which made retreat impossible, or at least unwise.

Well and so. If they wanted to meet him, then he would certainly make it worth their while. He consciously settled himself, letting every hair and crease fall into place to create a casually untidy apperance. Deshabille. He kept his claws and wings hidden, restraining the instinct to bring every weapon fully to bear. He wasn't Hastur, to leap like an animal to attack. Class. That was the difference. He wouldn't present an inferior image to whoever lurked upstairs. _They_ were the intruders. _They_ were in the wrong. Such things counted, with angels. A righteous anger was a far greater weapon here than a handful of claws.

He sauntered casually up the rest of the stairs, and let himself into the apartment, turning his back to the interior to lock the door. He could feel the wall of rage behind him, and it took all his control to allow himself to present such a vunerable front to the three angels he sensed inside. He turned slowly, letting an easy smile settle on his face. "Anything I can do for you, gentlemen?" he asked smartly.

"I hope so, _demon_, for your sake," the lead angel snarled. Crowley stared. Blonde hair snarled into elflocks and wings windswept, Gabriel was not a happy angel. The sword in his hand glowed with the Wrath of God, angelic battlerage, and armour had manifest itself over the white robes. Crowley swallowed hard. To his knowledge, he hadn't done anything to deserve Gabriel in avenging-angel mode, but here was the Hand-of-God, in his living room, and most decidedly pissed off. Thank Go...thank He...well, thank _something_ he hadn't come up here armed, or he would have been sliced in two before you could say 'Hello Angel'.

Cautiously, he moved towards them, keeping his hands in view at all times. Three pairs of eyes followed him suspiciously, barely concealed fury riding beneath the surface of their gazes. It went against his every self-preservational instinct to move closer, but the only way to move them down from Defcon-1 was to talk them down. "Okay, lets take it easy here. You want some tea, or something?" He moved slowly, tone even and soothing, like an animal trainer talking to a lion with a toothache. Aziraphael had often called him silvertongued, with good reason. "I'm sure Aziraphael left some bags around here somewhere." Since Crowley himself was a coffee man, the angel had to bring his own teabags, the few times he'd been here. Crowley wondered if mentioning him would calm them somewhat. Worth a try.

Or maybe not. No sooner had the name left his lips than two swords were pricking his shoulderblades, and Gabriel's hands were around his throat. He gasped as the air was cut off, stiffening to avoid 'accidental' injury. His own hands reached up to grasp the angel's wrists, a human instinct that came with the body, as Crowley didn't actually need to breath. But he did need to speak, and the thought of mindspeak with Gabriel in this mood lacked appeal.

"_What the hell is wrong with you?_" he choked. Possibly not the best choice of words, given the situation, but damn it, he was a demon, and some situations demanded profanity, however mild. He clamped his hands around Gabriel's arms and tried to pull, but the angel moved not an inch. Meeting the rage-filled gaze, Crowley realised just how thin the layer of patience keeping Gabriel from snapping his neck really was. The archangel was truly in the depths of battlerage.

"Where is he, demon?" Gabriel growled. "What have you done with him?"

"What have I done with who, you psychotic angel? What are you on about? Hell, what are you _on_?" Maybe he was being slow, but Crowley felt he had an excuse, in the circumstances. Gabriel shook him hard, causing the other two's swords to dig painfully into his back. Crowley hissed, not in pain, but in rapidly building fury. If they'd lost someone, it was no problem of his, and they had no right to come to his place and treat him like a piece of garbage!

"Where is Aziraphael?" Gabriel roared, and suddenly the bottom dropped out of Crowley's stomach. Aziraphael. His angel was missing ...? Missed appointment. No word. Battle angels in his living room. _Aziraphael_.

Crowley snapped. His wings burst from his back to arch furiously over him, knocking the archangel's lackeys back. His claws erupted from his hands, slicing through Gabriel's armour as he tore the choking grip away. A second later, and those clawed hands were wrapped around the angel's throat, lifting the hapless warrior off the ground.

"What. Happened. To. Aziraphael?" he hissed in Gabriel's face, eyes furious yellow slits. The bowled angels scrambled to their feet, trying to bring their swords to bear on him again. He ignored them, glaring straight into the face of Gabriel's wrath. And, slowly, the rage ebbed from the captured angel, and he gestured to the other two to back down.

"You don't know, do you?" he asked slowly. Crowley growled in frustration. Of course he didn't! If he'd known, would he be asking? Gabriel nodded, and gestured pointedly to the hand around his throat. Crowley smiled sharply, and squeezed. Until he knew what they were at, he wasn't relinquishing his advantage, however risky. They had attacked him unfairly, and now it was his turn.

Gabriel sighed. "Very well. When did you last see Aziraphael?" Crowley didn't answer. He wasn't going to rat out his angel to this trigger-happy celestial policeman. They could fill him in, not the other way around, and hopefully _before_ Aziraphael was killed or discorporated, or worse. If they suspected demons ... Well, Heaven _always_ suspected demons, but Aziraphael _was_ in Hell's crosshairs, and if they had him ... He stared coldly at Gabriel, and willed the angel to answer him before he was forced to try something drastic.

Gabriel rolled his eyes, his own anger returning. "Fine!" he snapped. "Fine. You want to know, Hellspawn? He was due to report in yesterday. Aziraphael is always punctual. When he failed to check in, we contacted him. Do you know what we found? A ruined bookstore, shreds of paper, scorch marks, and _an angel's blood_." Crowley jerked, a low growl building in the back of his throat. Blood. Gabriel frowned. "The whole place stank of demon. Naturally we assumed that, as Hell's agent on Earth, you had something to do with it. We want him back, Crawly. Hell doesn't get to keep what's ours. We want him."

He looked expectantly at Crowley, who did nothing for a moment, struggling to contain his rising fury. Then he shrugged mentally, and let it loose. "Yours? You think Aziraphael _belongs_ to you, like a car or a _slave_? You beaurocratic _bastard_! He's not yours, or theirs, or _anyone's_, and no-one gets to keep him! Not angel or demon or God Himself, unless Aziraphael chooses to let them! No-one! If Hell took him, then Hell will regret it!" And, ignoring the horrified outrage of the lesser angels, and Gabriel's weighing gaze, he flung the Hand-of-God into the other two and leapt for the window, wings snapping out.

Arcing down like a bird of prey, eyes blazing yellow fury, claws fully outstretched, Crowley rent open the way to Hell, and plunged into its lurid depths.

XXX

Light. He was surrounded by light. Not the pure, clean light of Heaven, or the warm sunlight of Earth, or the cold glare of human lights. This light was red, dancing and leering and somehow dirty. It lapped like sewage against the dank walls, twinning sadistically with the filthy shadows. The light of damnation. The light of Hell.

Aziraphael crouched in the center of his cell, huddled against the touch of that foul light. He ached, in that dull, endless way that meant he was too tired now to even feel his pain. He was hurt. So badly hurt. No clothes left. Torn away, in the demons' excitement. Torn away, before they tore into him. _Into_ him. He was filthy, now, inside and out. Tainted by their foul touch, their taunts that tore into his soul. So much damage, in so little time. Was this what it felt like to Fall? It must be. Heaven would never want him now.

He huddled further into the embrace of his own damaged wings. The broken feathers brushed streaks of blood over him, but it only mingled with the blood and filth already there. The wings were no longer white. Absently, Aziraphael preened the feathers before his face, pulling away the loosened pinions, numb now to the tiny flares of pain the action brought. He focused, intent, and carefully pulled the delicate feathers out of the clotted blood, and into alignment. It soothed his battered senses, this small expression of order in this damned chaotic mess.

He heard the coming footsteps, the feathery rustlings of demon wings. He ignored it. If they came to hurt him, he couldn't stop them. In two days, they'd rent his pride and willful defiance apart. He stayed focused on his wings, ignoring the flutterings of panic and outright terror that clenched his stomach. Just feathers. Just cleaning the feathers.

The voice that addressed his guard had his head jerking up, though his matted hair caught in the chain around his neck and hurt him. That smooth, cultured tone, like velvet over steel ... _Oh Crowley! Please, please don't be here. Please, you can't see me like this. Not you. Please._

"Tell me, friend, is this where they keep the angel filth?" Calm voice, betraying him.

"Yesss indeed, friend. Why? You want sssome fun? Ha."

"Indeed I do, friend," Crowley replied cheerfully. Aziraphael was slightly puzzled by the gurgling sound that followed, and the thud. "Indeed I do."

The door opened, flooding the cell with that horrible light. Aziraphael forced himself not to retreat, not to cower away like a terrified animal. All he was, now, but he couldn't let Crowley see. He looked up at the figure silluetted in the doorway, squinting in the glare. Then Crowley raised his wings, blocking the direct light, and Aziraphael's light-starved eyes saw him clearly in the gloom.

He fought down the urge to back away. Crowley had shed the last vestiges of his human form, and what stood in the doorway was the divine beauty of an angel, twisted by a demon's fury. Clawed hands dripped gore, and the pupils of the slitted golden eyes were narrowed in rage. The demon's face bore anger, and anguish. Crowley stepped inside.

"Angel?" The word was half-swallowed. "Aziraphael?"

Aziraphael swallowed. "Hello dear," he choked. He wanted to cower away from the demonic figure, but still more powerful was the desire to take Crowley's face in his hands, and smooth away the torment there. The lessons of the last couple of days: fear all demons; couldn't compete with the instinctive urge to ease pain. He was an angel still, tainted or no.

But the last few days _had_ left their mark, and he couldn't restrain his flinch as Crowley raised a clawed hand towards his face. He dipped his head to hide behind a hank of filthy hair, shamed by the fear he knew was obvious, and watched Crowley's hand land gently on his chain. He trembled. He wanted to ask the demon not to pull on it, but what if he meant to? What if Crowley was here as a demon, not as a friend? He didn't know if he could stand that.

"Hold still, angel," Crowley murmured. _Hold still, you squirming piece of angel filth! No point in struggling._ Demon voices. Demon hands. "Only a moment, Aziraphael." The hand shifted, grasping the chain firmly, the back of it nestled almost intimately against Aziraphael's throat, before Crowley ripped the offensive metal away. The sheared links clattered to the floor. Aziraphael started, falling backwards in shock. Crowley caught him gently before he toppled back onto his wings, easing him up. "Easy. Easy, angel. Time to go. Up we come. Come on ..."

Before Aziraphael fully realised what was happening, Crowley had half led, half carried him out the cell door, and into the corridor. It was only as he almost fell over the headless corpse of his guard that the angel's beleagured mind caught up with what was going on. In sudden panic, as the ramifications of what had been done hit him, he jerked away from the demon, fetching up against one slimy wall. Crowley leapt after him, hands darting out to halt his fall.

"Stop!" Aziraphael cried desperately. Crowley froze, confusion and pain evident on his face. Aziraphael ached for it, but Crowley couldn't do this. The demon couldn't be found here, not helping an angel. What he had attempted was pure folly. There was no escape from Hell, and if Crowley was found with him, then the torments he would be submitted to for betraying his kind would be worse than anything visited on the angel. The thought couldn't be borne. He had to make Crowley leave.

"Crowley, you can't be here. Leave, now! Just go Crowley. Please, just go," he pleaded, staring desperately into his companion's hot, angry eyes. Even before he finished speaking, the demon was shaking his head. Aziraphael struggled to think of a way to make him leave. An ordinary demon would never even have tried this. An ordinary demon would have joined in his torment with a will. Crowley had too great a sense of honour. Aziraphael had known it since the almost-Apocalypse, when the demon had stood by his side in defence of the human race. That honour wouldn't let Crowley abandon him. But he _was_ a demon, and prone to rash anger. There was one way ... The angel's heart ached at the thought. To intentionally cause such pain as he was about to ... But Crowley had to be saved. It didn't matter how, Aziraphael had to keep him from harm.

"Get away from me, demon!" he snarled. "Or have your fun and be done. Go join the rest of your rotten kind. Have fun at the angel's expense. You filthy excuse for the Lord's creation! You disgust me! _Crawly_! Snake in the grass! Did you really think this pathetic ploy would convince me of your good? I know you, hellspawn. I know your tricks, and I won't be fooled! So do your bit of damage and leave me be!"

For one long, horrible moment, Crowley simply stared at him, striken to the bone. The anguish in his face almost undid Aziraphael, and it took every ounce of his battered will to keep from rushing to his friend and apologising with every scrap of sincerity his heart possessed. But Crowley had to be saved.

Then the pain and anger slid from the demon's face, leaving it strangely blank for a minute. Then a slow grin made its way onto that expressive face, and Crowley chuckled richly. Aziraphael started, confused and a little frightened, though there was no malice in the demon's gaze. Crowley reached out, ignoring his flinch, and rested his hand lightly on Aziraphael's cheek.

"Ah, angel," he laughed. "I always knew you were just enough of a bastard to like! A ploy like that is worthy of myself! But you forget. I know you too, heavenspawn. I know your tricks, and _I_ won't be fooled either. You have too much trust and caring in your heart to believe what you've said. I don't even want to think how much it must have hurt you to say such hurtful things." He smiled gently, and Aziraphael sobbed, once, quietly. His plan had failed. Crowley wouldn't leave. But however much fear and worry that knowledge brought him, his selfish heart rejoiced that Crowley trusted him and knew him well enough to have such faith in his trust. He bent his head, overcome, and felt Crowley's arm slide gently around his shoulders.

"Come now, angel," the demon murmured. "Lets leave the martyr complex behind, hmm? I know the Lord programmed it into you, but there's no need for it here. Engage a little survival instinct, maybe? Come with me, and we'll take the express train right out of here. An angel like you doesn't belong in Hell, my friend. Or Heaven either, but we'll leave that for another day. It's time for us to go, Aziraphael."

"Is it, now?" A cold voice echoed through the corridor. Aziraphael jerked upright, spinning to look panicked into the gruesome visage of Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, and his entourage. He felt Crowley stiffen beside him, and knew a moment of pure, unadulterated terror. Lord help them, there was no way to escape _this_. His mind screamed silently in visceral reaction. That face. Oh God, that face. He remembered the feel of it pressing against him, that hungry mouth closing around his flesh, those vicious teeth tearing into him. He remembered the feeling of the Prince's delight at his pain as it swirled around him in a terrible miasma. He remembered the demon taking him, hurting him, delighting in the pain that he caused, not for punishment, but for his own amusement. He remembered the tide of shame that ripped through him, stronger than the agony, at Beelzebub's foul touch. He remembered that horror, and in his mind the body in the demon prince's clutches was not his, but Crowley's, the face stretched by anguish not his, but his companion's, and his heart almost failed within him. Despair washed through him, and one choked fearful cry escaped him.

Then Crowley moved.

XXX

Crowley watched his angel crumple beside him, watched the horror and terror and shame and despair wash over Aziraphael's face in grisly pantomime, and the fury he had carried within him since hearing of the angel's capture changed, crystallising into something cold and sharp and implacable as the death of the stars. He looked on Beelzebub, on the cause of his angel's pain, and in his mind there was no thought of the other demon's power, or the forces the Prince could bring to bear against him. Had his enemy been Lucifer himself, it would have made no difference. For damaging his angel, for bringing that fear into Aziraphael's heart, he would see them destroyed. Even if it killed him.

He stepped forward, slowly, insolently, and allowed his gaze to wander provocatively over his enemy and his forces. A cold smirk lit his features as he saw Ligur in the front row. He turned his gaze on Beelzebub himself, letting the condescending expression do the damage. He had no need to speak to be insulting. The mockery was in his very bones, his stance, his air. He stood before the Prince of Hell, his figure a single, screaming insult in the face of that power. And then he laughed. High and cold and clear, he laughed at them. He laughed at the frozen expressions of shock and affront on the lesser demons' faces, laughed at the fury that lit Beelzebub's terrible visage, laughed at the very situation he found himself in. He laughed for what he was about to do, laughed for the death he was about to call down on himself, laughed for the irony of it all.

His Aziraphael was going home. His angel would be safe, in the hands of the one power not even Lucifer had found the strength to defy, though he had tried. He turned to touch his angel's face, that same gentle smile on his face as he had seen so often on the other's. He smiled into Aziraphael's confused, fearful face, and murmured softly into his angel's ear: "It seems I may have found a use for a martyr complex, after all. Go safely, my angel. Go home. And don't bother missing me, Aziraphael. I'm having far too much fun to be talked down. Say hi to big brother for me."

He smiled again, and, ignoring the protest forming on his angel's lips, rapped him smartly behind the ear. Aziraphael crumpled. Crowley caught him, easing him down, laying him ever so gently on the floor. He brushed the hair tenderly from the angelic countenance, letting his fingers linger softly on his companion's brow. Then he straightened, and, standing over his angel protectively, turned to face Beelzebub and his horde of demons.

He smiled brightly at them, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. Doubt suddenly blossomed in the Prince's face, and he opened his mouth to order the attack, but Crowley gave him no chance. He began to speak.

"Our Father," he pronounced, slowly and sonerously. "Who art in Heaven ..." He thrilled at the sheer panicked shock on their faces, even as he felt the first destroying touch of pure holiness feather across his consciousness. "Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come." He was amazed at his own audacity. He'd never had all that much respect for rules, unspoken or otherwise, but surely _this_ took the cake. "Thy will be done." To summon God Himself into Hell. "In Hell as it is in Heaven." To use his own, vunerable demonic form to utter the prayer taught by the Son himself. The divine spirit he called burned into him like a spear of white fire, glorious even as it tore his darker essence apart. "Give us this day our daily bread, And lead us not into temptation." Ironic, that, given that he'd been the original temptor. "But deliver us from evil." Please, deliver Aziraphael from this evil. Save one of your own. If nothing else, let this see him safe.

Crowley felt the fire in every corner of his being, but he had only one more word to say. One word, and his angel was safe. He laughed. _Ah, Lord. I hope this gives you a shock, if nothing else. And if you knew this was coming, then you've one hell of a sense of humour, if you'll pardon the expression._ He felt delirious. He felt fragmented. He felt exultant. He uttered the final word.

"AMEN."

His world flew apart. He flew apart. His essence, assaulted by the sheer purity and power of his Lord, shrank and billowed like a sheet in a high gale, and he laughed. He thrilled. Even as his senses dwindled and his consciousness fled into God knew where, he exulted. As a demon, bereft of this Presence for so long, the sheer glory of it would have been enough to enrapture him, but Crowley had something more. His word would deliver Aziraphael from Hell. His plea had brought God himself to see his angel safe. The joy of that knowledge filled every mote of what was left of his essence.

He saw a face. It was known to him, a face he had seen once before. A human face, warmed brown by the gaze of the Holy Land's sun, and crinkled in a smile of such quiet joy that Crowley's heart wept to see it. His big brother gazed fondly down at him and blew a gentle breath his way. Crowley spun away, into memory. Into the past.

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

This is a two-shot, so this is the last chapter. Enjoy it while you can.

Disclaimer: I have yet to have a sex-change operation, so it'll be a while before I can claim to be either of the estimed authors. Oh well.

Chapter 2

The hot sun beat down on a little desert town, its golden radience cradling Crowley's battered essence. He looked down, calm and wondering, on a figure in the desert on the outskirts of the town. At his own figure, two thousand years younger, and very unhappy. He marvelled at it, at this view of the past. Drifting closer in the grasp of the warm wind, he listened to his own frustrated muttering, two millenia past.

XXX

Crowley grumbled loudly to himself. Dust! He _hated_ dust. He loved the desert, loved the heat it gave to a body that remembered being cold-blooded, but he absolutely loathed the dust that lived there. Hated, hated, _hated_ it.

He pulled himself together. As soothingly agitating as his hatred for the dust was, he could no longer allow it to distract him from his true worries. Namely, the task Hell had been kind enough to set him. How in Go ... how in He ... _How_ was he supposed to tempt the Son himself, the second aspect of God, the Christ? How was he supposed to entice a being of such purity to sin? Provided he even got close enough to try without the Son of God blasting his demonic essence back to Hell on sight. It was impossible! They had it in for him! There was no way he could succeed.

But he had to try. Punishment for failure was pretty rough, but what they'd do if they thought he'd willfully disobeyed orders ... It didn't bear thinking about. Even if Jesus bumped him back Down on sight, at least he could honestly claim he'd tried. Cold comfort _that_ was.

He looked up with a sigh, and started to see someone standing silently not twenty cubits away. He looked up into the man's warm brown gaze, at the gentle smile that crinkled the sun-dark features, and at the knowing glint in those eyes, and groaned. Feeling utterly despondant, he sat down in the dust that had annoyed him so much, and dropped his head into his hands. Why, oh why, did it have to be him? Crowley cursed. It made him feel a bit better, so he did it again, letting loose a litany of profanity in aramaic, hebrew, latin, and arabic for good measure. It didn't help all that much.

"Are you well?" Jesus of Nazareth asked, genuine concern in his soft voice. Crowley only groaned again, burying his face further into his cupped hands, wishing desperately to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. "Demon?" the voice continued. "Do you need something from me? Who are you?"

Shrugging mentally, Crowley stood once more. Might as well get it over with. He faced Jesus, braced determinedly. "I'm Crowley," he said. "Or Crawly, though I don't like that one so much. Nice to meet you, big brother. And I'm here to try and tempt you from the path of righteousness, and draw you into the well of sin, and all that blah di blah. Hi."

The Christ stared at him for a moment, then his weather-beaten face brightened, and he laughed, low and gentle. It shocked Crowley. He was used to being laughed at and mocked, but this was different. There was no malice in this laughter, only genuine amusement. Jesus laughed, not at him, but almost ... for him. It was ... infectious, and the demon found his own lips stretching into a smile. It didn't feel all that bad, either.

"Crawly," the Saviour murmured, and from him the name didn't seem an insult. "Or Crowley. You're unlike any demon I've yet met. Nice to meet you too. May I ask, though, why you call me brother?"

Crowley shrugged. "You're the Son, the second aspect of the Father, begotten as part of him before angels and demons were ever created. You're his child, like me, and you came first, so you're like our big brother. Or that's what I think, anyway. Sorry if it insults you to be the brother of a demon. Though, since you're _everyone's _big brother, I suppose it shouldn't bother you too much. It'd be a waste of time to get worked up about every black sheep in our family. But I guess that's sort of your job, too. So poor you, and I'm rambling. Sorry."

"No problem," a bemused looking Jesus murmured. "That's interesting. Are you sure you're a demon? You don't act like one."

"Don't spread it around!" Crowley moaned. "I'm in enough trouble as it is! Yes, I'm a demon. I'm the original Temptor, the serpent of the Garden. I've got the credentials! I just don't believe in the beaurocracy of Hell, or Heaven, for that matter, so I tend to spend more time around humans than is probably healthy. Their mindset is infectious, you know."

"I know," Jesus smiled.

"Right. Of course. Sorry."

"So. You aren't even going to try and tempt me, oh great Temptor?"

Crowley bit back a grin at the playful enquiry. "Nah. Not worth the bother. And, keep this a secret, I don't really want to." Christ looked mildly surprised. _Crowley_ was mildly surprised. Why was he trusting the Son of God with a secret that could get him killed, or worse? Oh, yeah. Right.

"I know. Not exactly demonic of me," Crowley went on. "But I'm starting to kind of like these mortals, and I'd like them to get the chance to stay out of Hell. They've so much ... everything. You know what I mean? Inside, they've got such potential for the heights of good and evil. Every single one of them has so much darkness inside, and such bright little sparks of light. I want them to have the chance to choose, and show us what they can do. I know you can't banish their darkness. I know you can't single-handedly redeem the world and carry humanity up to the heavens. But you're the Redeemer. You can show them that redemption is possible. You can show them that they have a choice. And when they choose the darkness, it will be with all their creative will. But the same when they choose good. The greater the sin, the more glorious the redemption when they choose it. Frankly, if you do your thing, we'll have more fun all round. I just ... think it'd be worth seeing, big bro. How about you?"

The smile on the brown face was radient. "Yes," the Son of God said. "Well worth it."

"Right," Crowley pronounced. "Glad we got that sorted. I'm off. And, if you happen to see Lucifer any time, you might tell him I tried, yeah?"

"You mean lie!" Jesus grinned, mock shock on his face.

"No," Crowley smiled back. "I mean use your humanity to creatively embelish the truth. Just tell him what he wants to hear, and get on with saving the world. No harm, no foul, and you'd be doing your little brother a favour."

Jesus shook his head in amusement. "I'll see what I can do, little brother."

XXX

"The greater the sin, the more glorious the redemption, little brother." The warm voice caressed him as the Presence gathered him gently back into himself, before touching him with blessed sleep. "I believe I owe you a favour."

"Aziraphael," Crowley murmured desperately. "Him ... His favour ... Help him ..."

"Shush, little brother. Your beloved is safe. Now sleep. You need it. Sleep ..."

Crowley slept.

XXX

Aziraphael woke.

For a moment, he was lost. He felt warm, loved, safer than any spirit could be. The sensation was familiar to him, to any angel who had occasion to touch upon the Presence. But for some reason, he felt as if he shouldn't be feeling this. There was something in the back of his mind, some memory, that told him that he no longer deserved to feel this way. He no longer deserved to feel the warmth of his Lord's Presence, to know the clean light of Heaven.

Light. He remembered a light. Not like this. A bad light. An evil illumination. Hell. He'd known the light of Hell! They'd taken him! Oh Lord, Beelzebub. That touch, that foul creeping invasion, corruption. The taint ... He'd thought he'd Fell. He'd been sure of it. How then had he come once more to Heaven's shores? How ... ?

Crowley! Aziraphael jerked up, eyes flying open as he searched desperately for the demon. What had Crowley done? Lord above, what had his demon done to get him to Heaven itself? He scrambled around, temporarily blinded by the bright gaze of Heaven's sun, the light of God himself. After the deprivations of Hell, and so long under the lesser light of Earth, his eyes couldn't handle it just yet. But he had to find Crowley. If Crowley was here ... But he couldn't be. No demon could survive the path to Heaven. That was why the war was fought on Earth. The holiness here would destroy the demon. But that meant ... NO!

"Crowley!" he cried. "Where are you? Crowley!" Please, don't let him be gone. Please, don't let them have left him Down There. Ah, Lord. What choice had his demon made? Heaven would destroy him, but so would Hell, slowly and painfully. Aziraphael had suffered for two days. What would Crowley suffer if he remained there? For eternity? No. He wouldn't allow that! If Crowley had stayed, then Aziraphael would destroy Hell itself to bring him back! But if he hadn't ... Then no force could bring his demon back to him. If Crowley had come to Heaven, then Aziraphael would never see him again.

"Crowley," he wept. "Demon, what choice have you made? Why did you have to be so honourable? Why couldn't you have left me?" He remembered the demon coming for him, remembered Crowley facing down Beelzebub himself in his defense. He remembered the Crowley's tender touch as he whispered his goodbye, before the demon had sent him to sleep. He remembered, and fury welled up in him. Crowley was a demon! He wasn't supposed to sacrifice himself, not for an angel's sake! That was Aziraphael's job. Crowley wasn't meant to die! "Why couldn't you leave me?" he whispered, brokenly.

"Because he could never have brought himself to abandon you," a voice answered him. Aziraphael turned towards it, towards the warmth of it's compassion. He knew that voice. A hand touched him gently between the eyes. He flinched back, visceral memory prompting the panicked movement, but there was no harm in this Spirit. He knew that, relaxed into the knowledge as his sight returned, and he looked again into the face of his Lord.

The Son of God smiled down at him. "Little brother was strange that way," he went on, crouching down in front of Aziraphael so they could be eye to eye. Such consideration was characteristic of this Presence. "He never so much Fell as ... wandered downwards. There was little hate in him. He could never have left you. Not you. He cared too much for you."

Aziraphael swallowed. "Little ... little brother?" he asked, hesitantly, not sure he understood. The grin that answered him seemed to brighten even this place of perpetual light. Jesus smiled in amused remembrance, a sparkle of something like mischief in his eyes. It was that that told Aziraphael that it _was_ Crowley the other spoke of. Only his demon could put that glimmer of unholy joy in the eyes of the holiest of Spirits.

"Your Crowley is quite a character," the Son of God smiled. "First time I met him, and what does he do? Does he try to tempt me while I'm weaker and human? No. He calls me his big brother and explains his worldview to me."

Aziraphael had to smile at that. It sounded exactly like something his demon would do. Had done. Could never do again. Crowley was ...

"He's not gone," Jesus said softly, pulling the angel out of his dark thoughts. Aziraphael couldn't restrain his desperately hopeful glance, his silent entreaty. The compassionate smile that answered reassured him. Then Jesus stood, holding out a hand to him. "Come, Aziraphael," he commanded gently.

He obeyed, putting his hand in his Lord's with a trust that was woundingly foreign to him after his experience in Hell. He saw other angels watching in awe as the Son of God led him to an enclosure, an room shaped of light in the midst of Heaven's plain. He wondered at their looks, at their awe. Was it so unusual now for an angel to speak with the Presence? He hadn't been here in so long, and, strangely, hadn't missed it so badly. His duty would have been a torment to most, estranged from Heaven and the Presence for years on end, but it hadn't troubled him overmuch. That was thanks to Crowley. It was hard to dwell too long on what he was missing when his demon was pulling some stupid stunt, or helping him save the world, or complaining loudly about the closure of one of their favoured Italian cafes.

Aziraphael started at the thought. Had Crowley really held such an influence over him? Had the demon's companionship truly held such power for him that it could lessen even the loss of Heaven? He pondered as Jesus led him into the closed off space, but then he caught sight of its occupant, and all thought fled away, save one.

"Crowley!" he cried, dropping the leading hand and rushing to his demon's side. He caught hold of Crowley's hand, clasped it, as he stared into his friend's still face, desperately searching for some sign of life in the exotic features. He gasped thankfully as he found it. He hadn't realised it, but Crowley was beautiful. The delicacy of his bones owed something to his serpentine origins, but it was the spirit that lived in those structured features that enchanted. The air of barely restrained mischief, the sly grin that slid easily onto his face, the glimmer of amusement in the golden eyes ... He wanted Crowley to open his eyes. He wanted to see them, wanted to know that his demon was still who he used to be, was still alive in there. He wanted to know that Heaven hadn't stolen his demon away.

"Crowley," he whispered, feathering his fingers over the still face with more care and tenderness than any of his precious books had ever recieved. The movement woke some semi-conscious memory, of a touch like that over his own face, of Crowley's slender fingers lingering with care over him. "Wake up, Crowley. Wake up, dear. Come back to me, beloved. Please?"

In his concern for his demon, Aziraphael had forgotted even the Presence behind him, so he was startled when Jesus stepped softly up beside him. He looked at his Lord, the hope painfully obvious in his face. He knew it, but he didn't care. Jesus nodded, sympathy and love in his eyes, then laid his hand over the angel's on Crowley's face.

"Time to wake, little brother," he called softly.

Aziraphael watched his demon's face hungrily, every part of him tensed. Then the eyelids fluttered back, revealed confused golden eyes, and he couldn't hold himself back, leaning down over Crowley to hold his head to his chest, crying softly in joy.

Crowley was awake.

XXX

The vestiges of the memory still hanging on the edges of perception caused Crowley a moment's confusion as he opened his eyes to look once more upon his brother's face. Except here the face was lit from within with the fire of the Presence. Here the face was not the worn face of a desert-bred carpenter. Here, it was the Son of God, the Second Aspect. Crowley felt a shimmer of fear, concerned for his essence in the face of that holy fire. Then arms latched onto him, pulling him into a warm, desperate embrace. His head was held against someone's chest, against warm flesh scented even now with the bookish smell he knew and loved. Aziraphael. His angel.

"Crowley," Aziraphael wept over him. "You're alive. You're alive. Oh, you idiot. You idiot demon! You're alive. I don't know how, but you are. Thank God. Crowley."

Alive? He was alive? Why? Shouldn't he be? What ... Oh no. He hadn't ... But he had. He _had_ been that stupid. He'd actually had the hairbrained audacity to summon God into Hell. Well, the Second Aspect, but it was the same thing. He, Crawly, serpent of the Garden, had summoned Jesus into Hell. Oh, _shit_.

But his angel was here. Aziraphael was here, which meant he'd been successful. He'd saved his angel. That was all that mattered. Unless ... Unless they were both still in Hell. Unless they hadn't escaped, and all his desperate plan had achieved was to render him unable to defend Aziraphael. No!

He pulled himself upright, backing out of his angel's encircling arms to stare wildly around him. He touched once more on his brother's Presence, and gasped as realisation hit. Not Hell. No, not there. Idiot that he was, he'd ended up in _Heaven_. The first demon to ever achieve the White Plains. _He was in Heaven._ He looked desperately at Aziraphael.

"Angel. Aziraphael. I ... I can't be here! Aziraphael, I'm a demon! I _can't_ be in Heaven! Aziraphael!" His angel reached out to grasp his shoulders, steadying him. He grasped the supporting hands, holding onto them. He couldn't be here. He should be dead. There was no way his essence could have survived both calling the_ Son of God_, and existing in the holiness that was Heaven. He should be dead!

Aziraphael pulled him back into his embrace, holding him as if any second something would tear him from the angel's grasp. His angel knew what he meant, and it frightened the shit out of him. Aziraphael was _afraid for him_. His angel was afraid for him, and wanted to protect him. Despite it all, the thought eased Crowley's fear.

"But you can be here, little brother," Jesus interupted gently. "You can feel it yourself. No fire attacks your essence. You are not destroyed by my Presence, or that of my Father which permeants this place. Don't you see, little brother? You are home. You've come home."

Crowley stared at him. Above him, Aziraphael did the same. He felt a tremor run through his angel. Could He mean ... Could big brother actually mean what he thought he did? But it was impossible. Angels Fell. That was it. They couldn't just decide afterwards that they didn't like it, and hop back on the elevator. Once you'd Fallen, you were a demon. That was the way things worked. It didn't go the other way around.

"Little brother," Jesus remonstrated gently, a smile on his face. "Crowley. You said it yourself. The greater the sin, the more glorious the redemption. Remember? What more glorious and audacious redeeming act could you have performed? You called me into Hell itself, not for your sake, but to save someone you loved. You sacrificed everything, your life, your safety, your very essence, to save this soul. You have Ascended, little brother. Not because of repentance, but because of love. That is all that is needed. To love another enough to give everything you have to help them. A love that is requited, in enough force to allow your angel to ignore _my_ Presence in concern for you." He smiled radiently at them. "Little brothers, you cannot know the love I feel for you seeing this. You cannot know the joy you have brought my Father and I."

They looked at him, at his joyous Presence, and then at each other. Crowley looked up into his angel's eyes, and saw there an awe and a love that had nothing to do with Heaven, or Hell, or any of it. He saw in Aziraphael's eyes not an angel's random love, but the kind of love he had seen when two human souls found in each other the perfect expression of unity and joy. He saw true love, the kind that could move a universe if it had to, and knew that Aziraphael could see the same thing in his. He could not else, because Crowley's love _was_ Aziraphael's, and vice versa. He knew that now.

He looked back at his big brother, a sly smile on his face. "Oh, I don't know about that, bro. I think Aziraphael and I might have a pretty good idea of joy right now."

"Indeed," his angel murmured, holding him close. "And of love."

Crowley frowned briefly. "Isn't what we have ... Aren't he and I ... sort of ... forbidden? You know, being the same. Aside from the whole demon/angel thing, which seems to have sorted itself out. I'm not a demon anymore, am I?"

"No," Jesus laughed. "You're not. I think, little brother, that you are what you have ever been. I think you're you. That is all you need be. And as for the other ... What love such as this could be forbidden? Was not love the entirity of my message? That's all We want. We wanted a world where people, of their own free will, chose to love each other. Do you think We would forbid you a love that has defied Hell and Heaven themselves? And even if We did, would it stop you?"

"No," Crowley whispered. "Not even if I had to Fall again."

"Not even if I had to Fall with him," Aziraphael added solemnly. "We would be happy enough on Earth for it not to matter, as long as we had each other."

Crowley gazed up at his angel, at the seriousness with which he promised that, and something within him that had always felt lost and tormented eased at last. He had Aziraphael. No matter what. What was that human phrase? Come Hell or high water. They had each other.

"Aziraphael ..." he whispered. His angel looked down at him, and smiled at what he found in the golden eyes staring up at him. Aziraphael dipped his golden head, and laid his forehead gently against Crowley's.

"Crowley," he whispered back, and lowered his lips into the kiss. And Crowley was content at last. It was all they needed to say.

XXX

"Angel! Are you coming or not!"

Aziraphael sighed at the shout that echoed up the stairs of their London flat. Shaking his head in exasperation, he placed the volume he'd been tending carefully back in its place, and dusted it lightly before turning towards the door. Crowley stood there, rumpled and happily angry, having climbed the stairs in his impatience. For a moment, Aziraphael just stared at him, at the waves of dark hair arranged in artful disarray, at the expression of disgruntlement that barely disguised the happiness that lurked perpetually beneath the surface of Crowley's demeanor these days. He looked at this vibrant, mischievious creature that had stormed Hell itself for him, and his heart gave the little jump that was rapidly becoming a regular occurence. He smiled. Crowley's presence had changed even the beat of his heart. How fitting.

"Yes dear. I am coming. I was just finishing the latest volume. There's no need to yell."

"Hmpf. Whatever. You ready yet?" The tone was playful, teasing. Aziraphael shook his head in wonder, before walking over to Crowley and taking his head in his hands. He rested his forehead against the other's, staring straight into those golden eyes.

"I'm ready whenever you are, Crowley. Always." The serpentine gaze softened, melted. Crowley raised his face gently and kissed him, almost reverently. There was always an element of quiet awe in the way Crowley touched him, a tenderness that utterly erased the remembrance of the last hands that had taken him that way. With Crowley, even the Prince of Hell's touch was a distant memory. Only the Presence could come close, and that barely. Crowley was his light, his love. His demon, that had Ascended from Hell for him. His angel.

"My angel," he murmured.

Crowley smiled into the kiss, then pulled away, regretfully and yet teasingly. "We _are_ late, Az. Gabriel is waiting for us, and I've yet to introduce him to the delights of mortal Amsterdam. You wouldn't want to miss his face when he sees our destination, would you?" Aziraphael laughed.

"Alright, alright. But you realise this is hardly an angelic endeavour?"

The flame of mischief in Crowley's eyes could have set a nun's habit alight, and Aziraphael couldn't help but thrill at the wicked laugh that escaped his love's lips. "Aziraphael, love," Crowley laughed, "that's the whole point!"

Aziraphael sighed as they roared away in the precious Bentley, breaking every possible speed limit along the way to Soho, where a highly disconcerted archangel awaited them. Some things, he thought, would simply never change.

Thank God.

XXX

Well? That's it for this one, people. I think all that had to be said has been said. And in case you're wondering, I'm not actually all that religious. I just think that Jesus, along with a number of other enlightened men and women, may have had a point. If love is there, then that's all that matters.

Leave me a review? Share your views. It makes you feel better. Trust me. I know.


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